


blind spot

by walfs



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/M, Tattoos, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:41:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walfs/pseuds/walfs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the aftermath of war and too-close calls</p>
            </blockquote>





	blind spot

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd; minor cw for blood and near-death experiences but neither are too graphic

In the wake of war, everything becomes a graveyard.

The air is thick with smoke. There are trees are crammed into classrooms and sticking out windows, crumbling stone still falling from when it blasted to the sky. Glass is embedded deeper in their skin than it is in the ground despite the boots and sneakers and heels that crunch it down.

Glynda limps out from what’s left of the treeline with Ozpin draped against her side, the both of them bloodied but not beaten. A roaring cheer begins, but Nora’s grip on Magnhild tightens, her blistered palms popping under the pressure, wetting her gloves until they cling like a second skin.

Her ears are ringing when bright red floods her vision. Startled, Nora reels her arms back, Magnhild at the ready—

“Nora,” a soft voice filters through. Red makes way for gold, for olive skin and emerald eyes. Pyrrha’s armor is dented, some pieces completely missing, but she stands tall, as always, with Jaune at her side. In their eyes, though, sits a heavy sadness.

Bent and balanced on the rise of her palm is the blade from one of Ren’s handguns.

“Nora.” Jaune rests a hand on her shoulder, his eyes rimmed red and clear streaks that cut through the grime and blood on his cheeks. “This w-was--” he cuts himself off as his voice cracks, clearing his throat to try again without his old stutter leeching the words away. “This was all we could find.”

Nora breathes deep and Magnhild whines in protest, the metal curling in on itself beneath her whitened knuckles. It doesn’t mean anything, she knows; Ren’s lost his weapons more times than they’ve skinned their knees, broken them more often than their own bones.

“ _Nora_ ,” Pyrrha says again, the same way she did to Jaune when they found out about the bullying years ago and to Blake when she finally took off her bow, but it’s too soon to mourn. Nora pushes the comforting hand from her shoulder with a grin.

The forest races by her and Jaune’s distantly placating, “We just couldn’t find him,” is lost in her tailwind.

_That’s okay_ , she thinks.  _I can._

\--

What’s left of the forest keeps reaching up to the sky, tangling around her ankles, but she abandons her shoes to the roots that grab for her and keeps pushing until she hits the thick of it and has to weave through debris. Nora’s legs are burning from overuse, her knees cracking painfully.

She can find him, she knows. She always finds him. It’s a sense, probably; something a little like faith and also like a beacon, so deeply ingrained in her it might as well be part of her DNA. Her body will bring her to him as long as she keeps it going; undeniable, like how the sky is blue and breakfast is the best meal of the day, and she’s not the only one who knows the facts.

Her feet beat an uneven rhythm against still-wet soil, hollow as she runs up the truck of a tree cracked sideways, and echoing loudly when she darts through a fallen aircraft.

She doesn’t care about leaving a trail or the pain licking up her ankles; or, anyway, it’s not like she has a choice. Ren’s waiting for her.

It’s not long until she spots a few long, delicate black strands dangling from a rock at the top of a cliff-face, and though they sway limply in the breeze she knows a flag when she sees one. She hops onto Magnhild and nearly loses her balance, bloody feet almost slip-sliding around in search of grip. The metal is frigid against her sweltering, blistered skin. She grits her teeth, curls her toes, and launches herself up with only a pitiful  _thunk_  of splattering mud as she goes.

Landing is more of an issue than flying-- it  _always_ is-- and her bent knees do little to cushion the impact. She tumbles herself over the partially-ground rocks, her back alight as the sharp edges scrape into her skin, but the flashes of pain easily dim and blink out when she sees a familiar flash of pink.

Buried half in a bush, half under a tree, with only his legs exposed to the open air, Ren is motionless.

Nora allows herself a split-second of inaction to assess the situation-- the pool of blood seeping from under him means he’s badly injured, he’ll need a medic; the silence means he’s probably unconscious, he’d call out to her otherwise; and the tree bearing down on his back, keeping his face pressed into the dirt, means he’s pinned-- before she settles on the quickest solution first. She bends her knees, wraps her arms as far around the decrepit trunk as she can, and inhales deeply.

It’s heavier than she thought, and her abused legs twinge and cry at the motion, but adrenaline is coursing through her again. With a roar, Nora chucks the tree as far away as she can, possibly even into the damn solar system because she doesn’t hear it fall back down. Then again, she doesn’t really hear anything once she realizes Ren’s not breathing.

“Ren?” Nora whispers. She doesn’t mean to whisper. Her body is shaking and she wants to scream.

Everything is silent, even as she drops beside him and flips him over, forgoing gentleness in the hopes that it’ll jostle him awake.

“Ren!” she tries again, louder this time, as she shakes his shoulder. Her palm shifts from his shoulder to cradle his cheek, shaking so hard she all but smacks him, and that’s when his chest heaves. Ren’s eyes flutter open, unfocused, his pupils so wide there’s barely any pink left in his eyes; clarity only bleeds in when Nora leans over him, filling every inch of his view.

Slowly, Ren lifts one hand from the puddle below him and clumsily smears his finger against her nose, staining the tip of it red. Nora jerks back a bit, crossing her eyes instinctively to stare at the foreign smudge for a long moment, and then her shoulders start to shake and she laughs, throwing every inch of her aching body into it as she tosses her head back and lets the noise boom. Ren’s hand, now curled loosely around her ear, tugs at her, and Nora follows it, tipping her head down and following it with her body, as her laughter subsides. Her nose is runny, but he can deal with a some snot after that little stunt.

“Breathe louder, you jerk,” she chokes out.

Ren leans up to knock their foreheads together and smiles.

\---

Neither of them remember the walk back, the clean-up, the emergency medical attention they’d both been subjected to. Ren says it’s the medication but tries to fight through the gaps in his memory anyway; and meanwhile, Nora doesn’t care about getting them back when she knows she’d been with Ren, they were both fine, and that’s about all she needs anyway.

Sometimes, she thinks Ren might know more than he admits, that maybe the reason he jolts awake at night isn’t from what he’s forgotten but from what he’s remembered. He won’t tell her specifics, ever, but he talks to her about it, and when they’re curled together under the blankets, her arms wrapped tight around him, he can sleep most of the night.

Nora gets flashes sometimes-- trees and metal twisted together, the feeling of running on coals, a terror hiding in bushes that hits her so hard she can hardly breathe from it. Her feet were extensively damaged, the doctors say, as was pretty much everything from the waist down. She thinks she remembers a heavy weight pressed along her back, arms hanging limp on each side of her face. She thinks Magnhild might still be missing, too, but she can’t be sure. 

None of them really remember.

In the distance, a beowolf howls up into the empty sky. Nora shifts closer to Ren on the bed, trying to see the crisp black ink that normally curls across Ren’s skin. A part of the tattoos claw out from the curve of his shoulder and peek up from where his sweatpants drape over his narrow hips, and she follows the rest now only thanks to her muscle memory. It’s not the same when she can’t see the abstract patterns herself, press her fingers to the thicker bundles that gather over his vital points, reassure them both that everything’s in one piece; and she can’t because of the smothering white bandages wrapped around his waist, torso, arms, neck.

She hates them.

As if drawn into the thought with her, Ren runs a hand down his chest and curls it near his stomach, very close to where the most serious of his injuries is stitched shut. The scar will ruin the tattoo, Nora knows, and he’ll need to get it re-inked, but it’s better than the alternatives.

Shivering slightly at the thought, Nora crosses her arms low over his chest and brushes her thumbs over the same thick bundling pattern tattooed to the inner bend of her elbows.

“I forgot to keep an eye on my vitals,” Ren says suddenly. His eyes are locked on the floor, hand still pressed to his stomach. It sounds like a confession, like he’s only now realizing it. Like he’s started blaming himself for the mistake. Nora weighs how often they’re hurt against how often they get away unscathed, and how this time is different. She closes her eyes and thinks of what it must be like to taste death.

The bed creaks as Nora shifts so she can wrap her arms around him from behind, lays her cheek against his shoulder, where the bandages are thin enough to make out the markings, and presses him between her own.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Me too.”


End file.
